


they just play tragic

by theviolonist



Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: Abuse, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 21:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/pseuds/theviolonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that they're good together - God no. It's something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	they just play tragic

"I'm sorry," he says, looking somewhere beyond her.

She waits for the telltale peace to settle in between her ribs, but nothing comes. 

He's looking at her now, she can feel it, his gaze on her cheekbones, crawling up to her eyes that she won't let him meet. 

_Say it_ , she thinks, and it's like a high tide, like _control_ , for once. _Not good enough._

"Okay," she blurts out instead, ugly and bloated. She wants to take it back, but he's on her before she can, pushing all the words back down her throat. 

*

She doesn't even like bourbon. She always found the taste too tart, heavy and difficult to swallow. She prefers wine. 

They don't drink wine, though. Of course not. Bass men, they have to drink something that looks like diluted gold, a mate sparkle, molten metal reflecting on the squares cut in their glasses. 

She doesn't think she's ever seen them drink together, but it doesn't matter: every time she's there, sitting opposite one of them with her legs crossed under the table to allow herself to lie, she thinks she sees their ghost floating behind the chair, smirking. 

*

Serena, smelling of vomit and expensive perfume, pressing her nose in Blair's hair. 

"But do you like it?" she asks when Blair lets something slip about a bruise, a necklace, a pair of mornings without her sleep mask. 

It's so _easy_ for her: it's black and white, good or bad, right or wrong. Serena Van Der Woodsen, ladies and gentlemen. The most gorgeous fuck-up of the century. 

Blair knows better than to answer _do you think it's really as easy as that?_. She's not really sure she wants to hear the answer, anyway. 

"Yes," she says. She wanted to say _no_ , is the thing, but she's so used to it – saying no and people taking it as yes. Might as well, right? 

*

They think it's a carousel. They're still children, in the end; well, they all are, but those two more than the rest. They're having fun swapping their Barbie doll, making her change limousines in open traffic. _Friendly fire_ , they say, like it means that she won't get caught in between. 

She's a pair of cufflinks. She's an expensive book, opened once to crack the spine and make it look like it's been read. She's one of those vases in their hallways without any flowers in it. 

She's the crack in the wall. She's the open window. She's their pills and their alcohol and their prostitutes: they use her when they need comfort, when they need someone to tell _I love you_ lest it leave burn marks in their throats, but once in a while someone asks them to stop and they don't even protest. 

*

Maybe she likes them. Maybe that's why she always comes back to them, over and over, even when she thinks she's done, never again. 

"Blair Waldorf," Jack says, sidling up to her. "Long time no see."

There's a waitress passing by carrying a tray of champagne, of course. Blair grabs a cup without even looking. 

"Jack," she says coldly. 

"Where is my dear nephew, then? Has he gotten tired of your wiles yet?" 

That's the thing. It's always a question of time with the Bass: it's always a test, and you never know if you've passed. 

"Don't you have better things to do, Jack? Destroy some people's lives, seduce some heiress with poor intellect and no impulse control?"

He smiles at her, bending to kiss her hand. She doesn't take it back quick enough, or so she tells herself. 

"Charming as ever, Waldorf," he says, his breath brushing her knuckles. 

She doesn't watch him walk away. 

She would probably have answered his questions, too, she thinks, taking a sip of her champagne. If she knew the answers. 

*

Oh, she could write volumes about them. She could talk about this singular slouch, the way their eyes unfocus and they just forget about everything that isn't them and their precious comfort. She could talk about their lust. She could talk about the way they go on destructing themselves, messily but methodically. She could talk about the way they pretend to love her, even; the way they leave bruises on her hips and arms when they ask her for a dance, they way they never quite apologize after.

But of course she follows Jack Bass. Of course she buys into his new lies, all fresh from the printer, as though she couldn't recognize a treason after Chuck's thrust so many on her. 

Yeah. Maybe she wants it, after all. 

*

It's not that they're good together – God no. It's something else. 

It's the way Chuck says her name like she's the only thing he sees when he's in this state between wakefulness and unconciousness. It's the way Jack always sees like a threat and comforts her anyway. It's the way they both kiss her, with their chins high, their hands splayed on her neck as though to strangle her. 

It's all this _power_. She's always wanted it; it hasn't changed. It's always there, sticking out like a blade between her ribs, and they – they see it. 

Oh, it's selfish. It's the way she thrums like a cello every time they call for help, every time they say "I need you" and she comes running, offering herself up for more wreckage. 

*

He asks her. Jack. He finds a moment when the sirens aren't blaring to press promises in the crook of her shoulders, splashing them carelessly all over the Dior couture dress, and then he asks her. 

"Do you want to go away?" His eyes are burning. "We could go somewhere. I'm sick of this town."

She thinks about it for a moment. She thinks about following him, sliding down the limo's backseat like she's done so many times, her beauty perfectly framed by smoked glass windows, and leaving. They could take a plane. Where does he want to take her? Does it even matter? 

Will he stay if she says no? Maybe. You never know with the Bass boys, they're unpredictable in the bad way – always worse, always wrong, always more. Sometimes you find them getting shot at, or in brothels, or mourning yet another dead mother, father, lover.

Will he stay if she says no? Maybe not. He's not as addicted to this city as she is. They can pull off their act anywhere, the drama travels with them, sticking to their skins like cologne. 

She thinks about saying yes, she does. 

"It's a no, then," he says when she doesn't answer, and there, another decision made for her. How convenient. 

She doesn't nod and she doesn't step back when he kisses her, one of those melodramatic kisses that are supposed to mean adieu, even though their paths always end up crossing again. She watches his car drive away, melting in with all the other shining black hoods. 

Maybe she would have said yes; maybe she's just afraid of what would have happened if she had, if she'd gone with him (happiness). 

Either way, it's not like she's ever going to know, is it?


End file.
